Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I just can’t. You go to sleep now, lass. We’ll talk about it later, aye?”


He went out, walking carefully, as though very drunk, and closed the door gently behind him. He got halfway down the main stair before realizing he was naked. He stood there, his mind blank, watching the colors of the Murano lamp fade as the daylight grew outside, until Paul saw him and ran up to wrap him in a cloak and lead him off to a bed in one of the guest rooms.



RAKOCZY’S FAVORITE gaming club was the Golden Cockerel, and the wall in the main salon was covered by a tapestry featuring one of these creatures, worked in gold thread, wings spread, and throat swollen as it crowed in triumph at the winning hand of cards laid out before it. It was a cheerful place, catering to a mix of wealthy merchants and lesser nobility, and the air was spicy with the scents of candle wax, powder, perfume, and money.

He’d thought of going to the offices of Fraser et Cie, making some excuse to speak to Michael Murray, and maneuvering his way into an inquiry about the whereabouts of the young man’s aunt. Upon consideration, though, he thought such a move might make Murray wary—and possibly lead to word getting back to the woman, if she was somewhere in Paris. That was the last thing he wanted to happen.

Better, perhaps, to instigate his inquiries from a more discreet distance. He’d learned that Murray occasionally came to the Cockerel, though he himself had never seen him there. But if he was known…

It took several evenings of play, wine, and conversation before he found Charles Pépin. Pépin was a popinjay, a reckless gambler, and a man who liked to talk. And to drink. He was also a good friend of the young wine merchant’s.

“Oh, the nun!” he said, when Rakoczy had—after the second bottle—mentioned having heard that Murray had a young relative who had recently entered the convent. Pépin laughed, his handsome face flushed.

“A less likely nun I’ve never seen—an arse that would make the archbishop of Paris forget his vows, and he’s eighty-six if he’s a day. Doesn’t speak any sort of French, poor thing—the girl, not the archbishop. Not that I for one would be wanting to carry on a lot of conversation if I had her to myself, you understand….She’s Scotch; terrible accent…”

“Scotch, you say.” Rakoczy held a card consideringly, then put it down. “She is Murray’s cousin—would she perhaps be the daughter of his uncle James?”

Pépin looked blank for a moment.

“I don’t really—oh, yes, I do know!” He laughed heartily, and laid down his own losing hand. “Dear me. Yes, she did say her father’s name was Jay-mee, the way the Scotches do; that must be James.”

Rakoczy felt a ripple of anticipation go up his spine. Yes! This sense of triumph was instantly succeeded by a breathless realization. The girl was the daughter of La Dame Blanche.

“I see,” he said casually. “And which convent did you say the girl has gone to?”

To his surprise, Pépin gave him a suddenly sharp look.

“Why do you want to know?”

Rakoczy shrugged, thinking fast.

“A wager,” he said, with a grin. “If she is as luscious as you say…I’ll bet you five hundred louis that I can get her into bed before she takes her first vows.”

Pépin scoffed.

“Oh, never! She’s tasty, but she doesn’t know it. And she’s virtuous, I’d swear it. And if you think you can seduce her inside the convent…!”

Rakoczy lounged back in his chair and motioned for another bottle.

“In that case…what do you have to lose?”



Next day

SHE COULD SMELL the h?pital long before the small group of new postulants reached the door. They walked two by two, practicing custody of the eyes, but she couldn’t help a quick glance upward at the building, a three-story chateau, originally a noble house that had—rumor said—been given to Mother Hildegarde by her father, as part of her dowry when she joined the church. It had become a convent house and then gradually had been given over more and more to the care of the sick, the nuns moving to the new chateau built in the park.

It was a lovely old house—on the outside. The odor of sickness, of urine and shit and vomit, hung about it like a cloying veil, though, and she hoped she wouldn’t vomit, too. The little postulant next to her, Sister Miséricorde de Dieu (known to all simply as Mercy), was as white as her veil, eyes fixed on the ground but obviously not seeing it: she stepped smack on a slug and gave a small cry of horror as it squished under her sandal.

Joan looked hastily away; she would never master custody of the eyes, she was sure. Nor yet custody of thought.

It wasn’t the notion of sick people that troubled her. She’d seen sick people before, and they wouldn’t be expecting her to do more than wash and feed them; she could manage that easily. It was fear of seeing those who were about to die—for surely there would be a great many of those in a hospital. And what might the voices tell her about them?

As it was, the voices had nothing to say. Not a word, and after a little she began to lose her nervousness. She could do this and in fact, to her surprise, quite enjoyed the sense of competence, the gratification of being able to ease someone’s pain, give them at least a little attention—and if her French made them laugh (and it did), that at least took their minds off pain and fear for a moment.

There were those who lay under the veil of death. Only a few, though, and it seemed somehow much less shocking here than when she had seen it on Vhairi’s lad or the young man on the ship. Maybe it was resignation, perhaps the influence of the angels for whom the h?pital was named…Joan didn’t know, but she found that she wasn’t afraid to speak to or touch the ones she knew were going to die. For that matter, she observed that the other sisters, even the orderlies, behaved gently toward these people, and it occurred to her that no particular sight was needed to know that the man with the wasting sickness, whose bones poked through his skin, was not long for this world.

Touch him, said a soft voice inside her head. Comfort him.

All right, she said, taking a deep breath. She had no idea how to comfort anyone, but she bathed him, as gently as she could, and coaxed him to take a few spoonsful of porridge. Then she settled him in his bed, straightening his nightshirt and the thin blanket over him.

“Thank you, Sister,” he said, and, taking her hand, kissed it. “Thank you for your sweet touch.”

She went back to the postulants’ dormitory that evening feeling thoughtful, but with a strange sense of being on the verge of discovering something important.



That night